Chapter 3

3

MEREDITH

What am I doing? Just what the hell am I doing? This isn’t Stalking Lite anymore. I’m in full-on Joe Goldberg mode. In fact, Joe Goldberg would probably give me that judgy stare of his and say, “That’s messed up.” Shut up, Joe. At least I’m not a killer.

I should stop. This isn’t cute anymore. But when Aspen navigates her way out of the parking lot, I start my car and follow once more, making sure to keep some distance away from her. We take the 110 back toward Pasadena. Aspen’s place is a couple blocks away from Caltech, a gorgeous home surrounded by a pristine front yard and a backyard complete with a pool and a tree house and a patio to die for. Meanwhile, I’m stuck in San Gabriel. She shops at Trader Joe’s. I shop at the San Gabriel Superstore. She buys organic pre-marinated bulgogi in sterile vacuum packs. I buy frozen nuggets and off-brand hot dogs.

“How is that fair?” I say to Luca. He’s taken a break from sucking on his foot and is sucking on his fists instead. “This is why we gotta do this, right, sweetie?”

I lose Aspen right as she exits, but I know her route like the veins on the back of my hands. I don’t panic. I take the turn, not even bothering to try to peer around the car ahead of me to see if she’s still there. I drive down Mission Street, and just as I knew I would, I catch sight of her Land Rover driving into the Trader Joe’s parking lot. I nod to myself and drive away. It’s lunchtime, and I’m famished. Luca feeds like a fiend, so I’m just constantly hungry. And tired. And cranky. This whole breastfeeding business is bullshit.

When I got pregnant, I thought to myself: I’m going to be that mom that every other mom loves to hate . I’m going to be skinny because I’m going to take on breastfeeding like it’s a fucking Olympic sport. My baby’s going to suck all the calories right out of me. And you know what? I really did do that. For the first month of his life, Luca was basically attached to my boobs 24/7. And it was hell. The tips of my nipples cracked, scabbed over, then the scabs were pulled off as he sucked. It was excruciating, like razor blades on my nipples. While milk poured out of me, tears flowed from my eyes, and snot leaked from my nostrils. I was leaking liquid everywhere. I couldn’t even bear to use the breast pump because my nipples were stinging so bad, so when Luca wasn’t nursing, I hand-expressed the rest of my milk into Medela bottles. Once, as I was squeezing my breast like a cow’s udder, I cried so much that a teardrop plopped into the bottle. My scream jerked Luca awake. I picked up the wailing baby and latched him to my other nipple and called Aspen.

“Is it tainted now?” I bawled. “Do I have to throw it out? There’s like, four ounces!”

Aspen laughed. “No. Oh my god. Tears are okay. It was only a drop, right?”

“But I’ve got my eyelash extensions! The tear is probably contaminated with eyelash glue or something.”

“Babe,” she said, “you know how much crap is on our nipples? Sweat, natural body oils, moisturizer. Give the expressed milk to Luca. He’ll be fine.”

Relief washed through me. But right on the heels of that surge of relief was something else. Something that had caught on to the patronizing tone in Aspen’s voice. Heard the silent laughter in the way she’d said, “Babe.” There was something familiar in it. And it was then that I realized it was how I used to talk to her. No. I was never that patronizing toward her, never.

She was still talking. “I was like that with the twins. Sterilizing everything. And now, with Sabine, I’m just like, meh. She’ll be fine, you know? Yesterday, she dropped her pacifier on the kitchen floor, and I just gave it a rinse, wiped it off, and put it back in her mouth. It’ll be fine!”

She was trying to reassure me. Part of me was grateful, but it was only a small part. The major part of me was furious. How fucking dare she look down on me like that? Treat me like a novice? I was the one who made her. When I spoke again, my voice was pure ice.

“No, I’m dumping the milk. Maybe you’re okay with giving Sabbie dirty milk, but I don’t think I could live with myself if Luca got sick.”

There was a pause. Jesus. Why did I have to come at her with claws out? She was just trying to help.

No, she wasn’t. She knew exactly what she was doing. Reminding me that the status quo had flipped, and that now she was the expert—the one showing me the ropes.

Still, the silence stretched on until I wanted to snap. Then, finally, she laughed. “Okay, Mer. You know best.”

“I do.”

The memory of that day, that almost-fight, scrapes like a knife against raw skin. There have been so many of those moments, especially once I announced my pregnancy. Dozens of little comments from Aspen made to cut me down—to remind me that I am now walking a path she’s already sprinted. She had the twins six and a half years ago; she’s a total pro at motherhood. And now here I am, stumbling down this path all alone. I’m not like her. I don’t have a devoted husband or an assistant. It’s just me and Luca against the world.

By the time we get home, Luca is full-on crying. I gather up everything—my purse, the bulging diaper bag, and Luca—and hurry inside my apartment. Inside, I lift up my shirt and yank down my bra and latch him on.

After the first two months or so of breastfeeding, things got better. My nipples got used to it, the wounds slowly healed, and nursing stopped feeling like I was being mauled by a pack of hungry lion cubs. Still, contrary to popular belief, it hasn’t helped me lose the baby weight. Sure, breastfeeding burns some calories, but it’s not actually that much.

While Luca feeds, I shove all the junk off my sofa one-handed and settle down with a sigh. I open my Insta and clock the number of followers. 861,292. I frown. Yesterday, I had 861,113. I’m still growing, but it’s definitely hitting a plateau.

“What more do you want from me?” I mutter at my Insta. I click on the Insights. My latest posts—mostly Reels—are doing okay. Most of them are averaging around five to seven hundred thousand views, which sounds impressive, but considering the number of followers I have, it’s not amazing. Unlike Aspen, who has over five million followers—5,152,349 to be exact, but who’s counting? Her Reels are getting over seven million views at the very least. What the fuck is up with that, Instagram? And don’t even get me started on TikTok. My TikTok presence is abysmal. On TikTok, I’m what’s considered a “micro-influencer,” which is only one step above “nano-influencer.” I have around seventy thousand followers, whereas Aspen has cracked the TikTok code and is already at six million and still growing massively. She tried getting me to move to TikTok when it first became big.

“It’s amazing, Mer,” she said, her eyes wide. The twins were about three years old then. I remember because that was right around the time that they found out Noemie was diabetic. “TikTok’s algorithm is completely different from everything else. They really want to push your content out to new people, not just your followers. I’m growing faster than I ever did on Insta. You need to be on TikTok; it’s the next big thing.”

“You said the same thing about Snapchat, and look where that went,” I grumbled. At the time, Aspen had already surpassed me on Insta, so when Snapchat blew up, I made sure to invest the bulk of my time in it. Then everyone moved on, and all that time and effort just went down the drain. I might as well have focused on Tumblr for all the good Snapchat did.

“Forget Snapchat, Mer. Trust me, TikTok’s where it’s at.”

But I fought it for the longest time. I told myself that while Aspen was focusing on TikTok, I could take that chance to try to catch up to her on Insta. Not that it was a competition, of course. She’s my BFF! My ride or die. I just wanted us to do equally well. That’s not jealousy. That’s camaraderie.

Except Aspen was right about TikTok. Her TikTok platform grew ten times faster than any of her other accounts did, and her followers on TikTok followed her on other platforms as well. Her Instagram blew up. I could’ve sworn she gained a hundred thousand followers every fucking week. I was seeing #AllDayAspen everywhere I turned. I muted her. (It’s not mean. I was protecting my mental health.) Then I unmuted her. Rinse and repeat.

Aspen’s girls were born for social media. She’s always dressing them in matchy-matchy outfits, and achingly cute ones at that. They look like little ballerinas, or little princesses, or little fairies. I can just see her target audience—women between the ages of twenty and thirty-seven—lapping up all the whimsical outfits she forces the girls into. I look down at Luca, who’s already emptied my left breast, and shift him to the right one.

“Why couldn’t you have been a girl?” I mutter. “Then you could’ve worn all those cute dresses too. Look at the twins and Sabine in this one. Oh my gosh, sunflowers all over, to die for.” I narrow my eyes at Luca. Maybe I could put him in shorts with sunflowers around the hem? Plus navy blue suspenders. That would be cute. But where would I even find sunflower-patterned shorts for boys? I sigh. Why did I end up with a boy? You know how boring boys’ clothes are? You only have to walk into the kids’ section of any department store, and you’ll see how stark the differences are. The girls’ section is full of different materials—lace, wool, chiffon—in every color possible. Bright primary colors, soft pastels, neutral creams. Everything you could ever wish for, they offer it to girls. And don’t even get me started on the hair accessories. If you turn around and head into the boys’ section, all you find is tan and navy blue stuff. No frills, no flowers. Only animals allowed in the boys’ section, and not sweet whimsical ones like ladybugs or kittens. Predators only. Sharks, dinosaurs, lions. Zero accessories. Boring-ass shoes.

Maybe I could put him in a dress anyway?

I quickly bat away the thought. It would end up being a statement on gender. I have no idea what kind of statement it would be, but whatever it was, it would only invite trolls. Ah, if only I could be honest and caption it with: “This is not about gender politics. I just think girls’ clothes are cuter.” The thought makes me snort. Oh, I crack myself up. Ha ha.

It’s only when a teardrop spatters Luca’s cheek that I realize I’m crying. What the fuck? I wipe it away angrily. Ever since I had Luca, my hormones have been going batshit insane. I’m crying everywhere, at any time. It’s not postpartum. I know it isn’t, because I love my baby to death, I really do, and I don’t even feel sad or disconnected. I do feel anxious and stressed out all the time, though, but that’s only because my best friend decided she was too good for me ever since she became a huge influencer.

Luca unlatches with a small pop, his head lolling, his eyes half-closed. I heft him over my shoulder and pat his back until he burps, then put him in his bassinet for a nap. I’m so tired. Unbelievably so. How the hell does Aspen do it? She’s got not just Sabine but also the twins to deal with. Then again, she has Ben and Liv, so maybe that evens things out a little. I stretch out on the sofa and close my eyes. I should nap. At almost seven months of age, Luca still wakes up every two hours through the night. Sabine, on the other hand, is the perfect baby, because of course she is.

But when I close my eyes, numbers whiz through my head. Six million. Seven million. Eight million. I wonder if she’ll move out of Pasadena once she hits ten million. How much money do influencers with over ten million followers make? Aspen stopped talking about money a few months after she surpassed me. Whenever I asked how much she was making per sponsored post, she’d give me this pitying smile and say, “Oh, you know, I can’t complain!” Bitch, I’m not complaining, I’m just comparing notes. But I know she feels sorry for me, which makes me even angrier. It used to be the other way around , I want to rail at the universe. How did things get so backassward?

I give up trying to nap. No, I need to see Aspen again. I need to—I don’t know. I need my best friend. Or at least, I need to know what my best friend’s up to.

Less than fifteen minutes later, I’m at my sister’s door. She doesn’t smile when she opens it. “Hi, Auntie Clara!” I say in a baby voice, lifting Luca’s carrier close to her face.

Clara sighs. “Seriously? Again?”

“I’ve got a really important meeting to get to. A potential sponsor.”

“Okay, but isn’t your ‘brand’ Single Mom Does It All?” Clara says, putting rabbit ears around the word “brand” and spitting it like it’s a cockroach crawling out of her mouth. “So shouldn’t Luca come with you to the meeting?”

She has a point, but I recover quickly. “Oh, this one’s more Single Mom Looking Fabulous and Having a Healthy Life Outside of Being a Mom.”

Clara doesn’t look impressed. “I’ve got a really full day.”

“Really? It’s not wedding season.” Clara’s a wedding photographer, and she’s usually busiest in the summer; although, LA being LA, weddings do tend to happen all year round.

“Yeah, but I started doing family portraits, too, remember? So I’ve got pictures to edit, and—”

“Oh yeah, that’s right! Hey, that’s perfect, you can practice with Luca. Isn’t he the most photogenic baby you’ve ever seen? Come on, you can’t say no to that face.” I push the carrier even closer to her.

Clara sighs again, but the corners of her mouth are lifting ever so slightly, and I know I’ve won this battle. “He is pretty damn cute,” she says as she takes the carrier from me. “But I swear, Mer, next time, I’m saying no.”

“Love you, sis!” I kiss her on the cheek and hand her the diaper bag before jogging down her driveway back to her car.

“And I want my car back by tonight,” she calls out. “I don’t like the way yours smells.”

“Got it, sis!” I almost speed out of there in my eagerness, but since I’m in Clara’s car, I take care to drive out carefully, waving at them and throwing kisses as I go.

The drive to Aspen’s house takes twenty minutes, since there’s very little traffic at this time of day. I park a block away from her house and for a few moments sit in Clara’s car, drumming my fingers on the wheel. What am I doing? I check my Apple Watch. It’s ten minutes to two. The twins’ school lets out at two twenty. So Aspen will leave the house anytime now.

I get out of the car and stroll down the next street over to Aspen’s, my thoughts repeatedly going What am I doing? over and over like a heartbeat, faster and faster as I near her house. I’m two houses away when I hear the clang of her garage door opening, and I slip behind a tree. Her Land Rover backs out of the garage and drives off. The garage door is only halfway closed. I quickly run over— what am I doing what am I doing —and before it shuts, I kick out and put my foot under it. For a moment, I think my foot is going to be squashed. But then the safety sensors kick in, and the door stops rumbling down and starts to open again. Phew.

Aspen had the safety sensors installed the year the twins started walking. She was terrified that they might get squished under the garage door. I had laughed at her then, calling her a paranoid helicopter parent, but hey, I have to admit, I’m not laughing now. Or rather, I am laughing now, because look who just got inside your garage, Aspen? There are two doors in the garage—one leading straight into the house, which is locked, and the other leading into the backyard, which is unlocked. Since I haven’t acquired the skills to pick door locks, I choose to go out into the backyard.

And now what? I feel ridiculous. For a few moments, I stand there in Aspen’s magazine-worthy backyard, frozen. Her beautiful pool shimmers before me, so utterly inviting in the LA heat. Before our falling out, I used to come here every day and plunge into the pool with Luca. His face would light up as he splashed around in the clear blue water with Sabbie. The memory cuts at me, and I have to look away from the pool. Maybe I can go inside through the patio doors. I try them, but they’re locked as well, and I don’t want to set off any home alarms. It would be très awkward if Aspen had to rush home because an alarm went off and found me in the middle of her house.

With a sigh, I plop down on one of the lounge chairs. There’s a damp towel scrunched up on the lounge chair with a print of Princess Elsa from Frozen . Probably Elea’s. She’s a hard-core Elsa fan. Has an Elsa everything—lunch box, water bottle, even underwear. I smile sadly—god, how I miss the girls—and pick up the towel to hang it up neatly over the back of the chair. It’ll get moldy otherwise. But then I freeze. Because there, underneath Elea’s towel, is an iPad. Presumably hers. I pick it up and hit the Home button. It asks for a swipe code, and I figure out quickly that the swipe code is an E. I’m in.

As expected, there are all the usual apps. The kid-friendly educational games, all of them shouting about how they promote STEM. I swipe again, feeling stupid for snooping inside a kid’s iPad. What am I doing? But then I tap on the Calendar and freeze. Holy shit. They have a family calendar. Everything is connected. Everyone’s schedule is spelled out clearly, in painstaking detail.

There’s Ben’s work stuff, the houses he’s showing, the chores he needs to do, the twins’ extracurriculars, Sabine’s pediatrician appointments, but most importantly, there’s Aspen’s schedule. Aspen’s meetings with potential sponsors, with fellow influencers, with photographers. Times and dates and locations. Notes on each one. Hand shaking, I go back to the home screen, and this time, I tap on Instagram. It opens, and I stop breathing. I’m in Aspen’s account .

I have access to everything. Her drafts. Her scheduled posts. Her DMs. And I know then, clear as lightning, that the universe has decided to give me this one. Because I have taken the back seat long enough. I’ve been in her shadow long enough. I’ve endured enough of her subtle patronizing digs.

Things are about to change.